


Distraction

by DeCarabas



Series: Fugitives Together [19]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Act 2, Blue Hawke, Dragon Age Quest: Night Terrors, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2016-04-24
Packaged: 2018-06-04 01:56:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6636271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeCarabas/pseuds/DeCarabas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set during Night Terrors. He introduces himself as Justice, as if this is the first time they've met, and Hawke's never been able to tell where the line between Anders and Justice lies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Distraction

“It is good to feel the breath of the Fade again, not the empty air of your world.”

The cracks that spiderwebbed across Anders’ face are closing even as Hawke watches. No smoke writhing about him, no teeth bared in a snarl; as calm and controlled and ramrod straight as if he were in his clinic, focused on a patient, sleeves rolled up and setting to work, and nothing at all like Hawke was expecting, nothing at all like the glowing and furious version of Anders he’s grown used to fighting beside.

“You look different,” Hawke says carefully, uncertain, and Anders turns his head to focus on him.

“I am Justice. Anders has told you of me.”

As if this is the first time they’ve met, and maybe it is.

Lying late in bed that morning, with Anders humming, soft and satisfied, fingers tracing lazy patterns over Hawke’s skin, Hawke had asked him what that tune was, and his fingers had stilled. And he said he wasn’t sure. Just something he’d picked up from Justice’s memories somewhere along the way. He hadn’t realized he was humming at all.

* * *

Hawke tilts his head back to look at the statues perched high on the walls, the Twins in miniature, row after row of them stretching down the hall of Feynriel’s dream, and he wonders if this is Feynriel’s imagining or if it’s a reflection of the real Gallows, those bound and cringing figures constantly hanging overhead. The back passage out of Anders’ clinic has a clear view of the Twins, the real ones, and he’s found Anders sitting there sometimes when he’s working on the manifesto, looking out at those statues across the water, lost in thought. Not quite the type of thoughts the statues are intended to provoke.

The large office with a templar shield proudly displayed must be the Knight-Commander’s, and Hawke turns over one of the papers loose on her desk, a list of names. None familiar to him, no indication of what the list is for, but if it’s real and not just a creation of the Fade, it would have been so much easier to find evidence of Alrik’s “solution” like this, so much easier to dodge templar patrols if he could just slip into the Fade and check their schedule. Demons aside. He might be willing to take demons over templars; with demons, no one minds if he fights back. It’d save him a fortune in bribe money.

“That even a child raised outside the Circle would dream of the Gallows is… disturbing,” Anders says, turning from looking up at the templar shield and joining Hawke.

“It happens. I’ve had a few of those dreams myself.” Only natural. Though his were mostly cobbled together from images of Hightown estates and the Lothering chantry, or the occasional empty void which he assumed was the spirits just getting lazy. Feynriel’s version is disturbingly vivid, he has to admit.

Anders’ frown deepens. “Anders once believed the life of an apostate was freedom. But to be so accustomed to living in hiding and in fear—this is as much an injustice as the rest of the Circle’s actions.” He rests a hand on Hawke's shoulder, his grip tentative, barely there, as if the fragile mortal might break if handled carelessly. “They will answer for all they have done to you.”

 _Justice. This is Justice, he called himself Justice, stop thinking of him as Anders_.

Hawke keeps glancing up at him as the four of them go over the office, briefly lingering over the tome that had been lying open in the center of the desk—blood magic, because of course it is; confiscated material or just the Knight-Commander’s idea of insight into her charges. So far Hawke’s seen spirits take the form of books that fly about on their own and barrels that seemed to want to play games until they tired of that and turned into demons, so it seems best to be thorough. But Anders’ impatience has been plain since the moment they stepped into the dream, and Hawke can’t imagine what this is like for him, being here like this.

“You hanging in there, love?” Hawke asks. And Anders turns towards him, blue light swirling hypnotically across his eyes, and it’s a silly question. “Sorry for dragging you into this.”

Hesitation looks out of place on Anders when he’s like this; and it feels strangely like their first night together, when Hawke was still half-convinced Anders was going to run away again, uncertain where the lines lay. “I would not allow you to enter the Fade unprotected,” he says, as if it’s a matter of course. “But this is… not what I feared.”

“That’s good, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” But his expression says otherwise, an irritated line between his brows, and he turns away decisively. “We are wasting time. Let us find Feynriel and be done with it.”

Sometimes, on those rare occasions when Hawke realizes he’s dreaming, the spirits have been obliging enough to stop the action of the dream, whatever storyline they’ve concocted out of his memories, and just let him enjoy the scenery for while. Maybe they like having their work appreciated. He could do with a break like that now.

Somehow he doesn’t think Feynriel’s demons will be so obliging.

* * *

Merrill vanishes into the haze of the Fade just as the demon does, just as Aveline had before her, and it doesn’t hit Hawke like it should, kneeling over the spot where she’d disappeared. He doesn’t know what it means to die in someone else’s dream, if they’ve woken up safe and sound back in Arianni’s home or… not.

Doesn’t seem real. None of this does. Just a dream.

And he’s braced for Anders to say something, take the chance to get the last word in, demons and blood mages and _I told you so_.

“Hawke,” Anders says, deep basso rumble of a voice. “You must heal yourself. I cannot.”

One of his hands hovers, half-raised, like he’d tried. So much unspoken frustration in that aborted gesture.

He clasps Anders’ hand, nods. And those long fingers aren’t quite as warm as they should be, and the power that’s always been boiling under the surface presses back against him stronger than ever, but it’s familiar all the same.

Healing means reaching past the remnants of blood magic still hanging in the air like oil on water, a bright and shiny _come eat us_ sign for any demon in the vicinity, though Feynriel’s already got that covered all on his own. And the pain is distant, muffled; it’s more like the image of a wound, the place where Merrill’s vines had wrapped themselves around his ribs. The Fade’s haphazard understanding of physical sensation. Hard to think of it as something dangerous, something real.

“Oh. Thorn.” He digs it out, lets the skin knit together behind it, holds it between thumb and forefinger and wonders how this little piece had lingered after the rest of the vines had faded. “You know, this is giving me a whole new appreciation for Merrill’s skills.”

“She tried to kill you.”

“But she looked good doing it, you have to admit.” All those swirling vines and that red haze lashing around her. Quite the impressive sight when he was on the receiving end.

He just wishes Feynriel had dreamed them into anywhere other than Templar Hall, every stone of the place a constant unspoken reminder that any mage can fall to temptation, a lifetime of training undone by one half-conscious mistake.

And Anders has the same look of consternation on his face that he’s worn a hundred times in the physical world. “Why would you _admire_ —” he starts, but Hawke speaks at the same instant.

“Thank you,” Hawke says, grasping Anders’ hand. “For being here.”

And walking through Feynriel’s dreams feels like his lessons with his father; nudging Feynriel into questioning, holding back when he wants to come out and say, _it’s a dream, it’s a demon, don’t listen to it;_ letting him figure out how to recognize the danger on his own, figure out how to survive. But Merrill must have had the same sort of lessons as a child.

 _And if Merrill can fall then so can I, but not you, never you._ The sheer relief of it. And it’s not that simple, he knows that, he hasn’t forgotten Anders’ terror that night under the Gallows, but it seems simple right now. Good spirits and one mage who will never fall to temptation. And he leans forward, rests his head against the back of Anders’ hand, closes his eyes.

When he opens them again, Anders has knelt down beside him, studying him with swirling blue eyes. And Hawke suddenly finds himself thinking of that first night at the estate. _You’re a distraction_. Reluctantly, he lets go of him.

“Sorry. It’s hard not to see you as Anders.”

“We are the same. He’s still here.” And those sound like two different things, but he doesn’t want to question that right now. He’ll take it.

And the air of the Fade tastes like the power that’s always been coiled tight inside Anders, sharp and bright and at home here; and Anders is a reassuringly solid presence at the center of the dream, grounding him.


End file.
